


Together An Ocean

by htbthomas



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, Identity Porn, Laurel Lance is Alive, Post-Season/Series 01 AU, Reconciliation, Reveal, Secret Identity, Tommy Merlyn is Alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-23 03:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9639278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: Tommy's been bearing Oliver's secret for a long time. Maybe it's time to shift the load.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [useyourtelescope (thedreamygirl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedreamygirl/gifts).



> Thanks to my beta, LadySilver, as always!

  
_"Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean."_ \- Ryunosuke Satoro

* * *

Laurel's hands grip the edge of the hospital bed rail, the knuckles going white. "I should have stayed," she says, not meeting Tommy's eyes. "I should have made sure that you were okay first." She looks up then, eyes full of emotion, waiting for his response.

What does she hope for? What does she fear? If she hopes for forgiveness, she never needed it. If she fears his anger, he never held it. He loves her, even if she's moved on. "I told you to go, Laurel; you couldn't know the building would fall on top of me." He chuckles lightly, but even that's too much. The pain that radiates from his puncture wound makes him wince. The doctors told him he was lucky; if the rebar had gone through only a few centimeters to the right...

She reaches out to gently touch his arm in sympathy. "Thank God the Hood was there," she says.

"Yeah." He nods, but he finds himself examining her face. Oliver told him she doesn't know. But does she suspect? Her eyes hold his, calm and steady. She seems grateful, in a real way, not like a mask that covers a secret.

Like the mask that he wears. And for a guy who's always worn his heart on his sleeve, it's pretty tough to keep it in place.

To cover, he glances over at the flowers Laurel brought, sitting among a few other bouquets, Oliver's towering over Laurel's simple one. It doesn't matter, hers is his favorite. He doesn't expect any more—not when his father has just been implicated as the architect of The Undertaking. He's lucky to have the friends he does.

Oliver was the first to come by after Tommy's surgery, with his Girl Friday trailing behind, probably jamming all the security cameras or something techy like that. "I promise you," he'd said, voice low and breaking with emotion, "No more killing. No more vendettas. I'm going to be better. I _have_ to be better." He'd grasped Tommy's arm.

Tommy squeezed back, the last shreds of the anger he'd held onto finally crumbling away. "You do."

Oliver had smiled then, tears at the corners of his eyes. "Hold me to it."

He plans to.

"I guess Oliver already came to see you," she says, breaking him from his reverie. She must have seen him gazing at the flowers, lost in thought. "Are things… better between you?"

"Getting there." Then he frowns. "Didn't he tell you?"

"Uh." She hooks a lock of hair behind her ear and shifts. "I haven't seen him for a few days. I… couldn't stop thinking about what you said."

"What I…?"

"That you love me."

He starts to open his mouth to protest, but decides against it. It's true. He has to hold to the truth as much as he can these days. "I do."

"And I can't help but think… The Hood saved you—" She runs her hand down to intertwine her fingers with his. "—but you're the one who saved me."

* * *

Tommy takes a sip of his whiskey and smiles over the rim. "Do you wanna hit the dance floor?"

Laurel sets down her wine glass and gives him a look of mock disapproval. "Aren't you busy with important managerial matters?"

" _Co-_ managerial matters," he reminds her, nodding over at Thea by the hostess stand, "can wait. I'm on my break." He holds his hand out to her and she accepts it gladly.

As soon as she's out on the dance floor, she lifts her arms and sways back and forth to the pounding rhythm, catching more than a few eyes. He can't blame them. He loves to watch her dance; Laurel's such a force of nature. Her new job at the DA's office suits her, bringing down bad guys who've been trying to take advantage of the chaos in the Glades post-Undertaking. Oliver as the Hood—or as he likes to be known now, the Arrow—delivers the perpetrators to the police, Detective Lance and his colleagues book them, and Laurel convicts them. It's a pretty efficient system, and he's perfectly happy now to watch from the sidelines. It makes keeping the secret from Laurel a little easier.

Except when he has to move the sidelines farther from the playing field. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Oliver. He's walking—really, limping—surreptitiously across the back wall. His presence wouldn't be strange normally, but he's with his team, and they look pretty beat up. What happened tonight? If Laurel sees them before they disappear into the secret lair, she's going to want to follow them, and then what?

He grabs her around the waist and pulls her close, swiveling her around so that her back is to Oliver and Company. He leans in close to her ear, murmuring, "You're so sexy when you dance, I can't keep my hands off you." It's a convenient distraction, and also happens to be true.

She purrs and leans further into his touch, and the momentary flash of guilt he feels is drowned in arousal. He doesn't even notice when Oliver is fully out of sight. He honestly doesn't care.

* * *

Tommy punches in the code, tapping through the combination quickly out of force of habit. The lock clicks open, and he relaxes slightly. Sometimes the code gets changed and Oliver forgets to tell him. He wouldn't go down to the lair at all, except Oliver hasn't answered any of his texts today—not his personal cell or the Arrow-dedicated one. Maybe if he leaves a note...

He can hear voices as he descends the stairs, so he calls out, "Hey, Oliver! What is the name of that vodka you like? I can't read Cyrillic and it's time to reord—"

He stops in his tracks.

He blinks a couple of times. He'd think he was seeing a ghost, but he's learning that in Oliver's world, anything is possible. "Sara?"

She stands next to Oliver in his leathers, the two of them all alone down here. She's dressed head to toe in black, lean and muscular, so different from the soft and carefree college girl of five years ago. Though she may not be a ghost, she has the same haunted look in her eyes that Oliver gets sometimes. No wonder, if… 

"You survived the island, too?"

"Yeah," she says, glancing at Oliver. "I did."

Something inside him snaps and he rushes forward to wrap her in a hug. "Oh, thank God! Your family must be so happy! How did Laurel take the news?" He's surprised that Laurel never said anything, not even a text, but then again she's been so busy with the DA's office and her suspicions about Sebastian Blood. "She must be ecstatic—your dad, your mom—"

It's then that he notices how still she's gone.

He pulls back to look at her. She won't meet his eyes.

"They don't know," he realizes. "How long have you been back?" Now that his shock over seeing her again has passed, he puts together a lot of clues—she's in the lair, with Oliver in uniform, wearing a similar costume. Hasn't he been hearing reports of a new female vigilante over the past few weeks? "It's been almost month. Hasn't it?" He can't keep the censure from his voice.

"It's complicated, Tommy."

He takes a couple steps back, a rush of disappointment and anger making his face heat. "Another thing kept from Laurel. Is there something in the water on that damned island that turns everyone into liars?"

"Tommy." Oliver's tone is hard.

"Don't start with me, Oliver. She needs to tell them she's back. You know I'm right."

Oliver opens his mouth but Sara stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "There's someone after me. Someone who might hurt them to get to me. I'm trying to protect them."

Tommy tries to find the truth in her words, in her face, in her stance. He sighs, cocking an eyebrow. "Same old story, then."

Sara cracks a small smile and he sees a glimpse of the girl she used to be. "I promise. I'll tell them as soon as I can."

He wants to believe her, that it will be sooner than soon. But when Laurel comes home in tears after the kidnapping of her mother, collapsing into his arms, he's not surprised. But as he caresses her hair, he feels just as responsible.

* * *

"Another glass of water, Sara?" Tommy asks, holding up the pitcher.

Sara shakes her head. "Sure," she tells him, smiling, but she immediately goes back to reminiscing with Laurel over some inane story from college that makes Laurel nearly spit out her chicken parmigiana.

"And you never told Dad?" Laurel asks, after wiping the edges of her mouth. She cuts a glance toward their father.

Quentin just chuckles and shakes his head. "It was probably better that I didn't know."

Tommy sits back down, smiling himself, but inwardly shaking his head. Laurel and Sara have long since made up and these family dinners are the highlight of her week. But this week something's off. Sara's just gotten out of the hospital, and though he can't put a finger on it, it feels like every sentence of conversation is another layer of spackle over the things no one can say out loud.

Even Laurel has started turning the topics of conversation away from the craziness in the city lately, and Quentin just lets her. The past is safe, the past is where everyone was living a life out in the open. The past before the _Queen's Gambit_ anyway.

It's getting tiring.

"How are you feeling, Sara?" he asks blandly, only the slightest touch of polite concern. He can't help but poke the bear, just a little. "Are your injuries still bothering you much?"

Sara covers any startlement she might feel quickly. "A little. I'll be happy to be off the pain meds, and back on the Pinot Noir," she jokes.

He nods, but watches Laurel's face as much as Sara's. There's a moment when her expression goes blank with thought, and then it's covered with sisterly concern. "Well, take it easy," she says, laying a gentle hand on Sara's shoulder. "You'll be back in no time."

He goes blank for a second. Does she know something? How much? 

Has he been keeping the secret for no reason at all?

While they're washing up in the kitchen, he nudges her gently. "Nice to see you two smiling again."

She blushes a little in the middle of taking a plate from him. "Yeah, it is."

"Is she..." He struggles with the right way to say it. "Is she letting you in more?"

"Um, a little. I think I'm starting to understand her better, anyway."

"Because of her... night job?" 

She stops scrubbing at a stubborn spot on the baking dish, tensing for an instant before her brow crinkles and she looks up at him with confusion. "Her bartending?"

"Oh, yeah, she puts in some pretty long hours, take it from me."

"Don't we all..." She goes back to the dish.

Okay, so either she's still in the dark—or she knows the truth and she's keeping it from him. The same way he's keeping it from her.

When he goes to get a dry dish towel he takes a moment to lean against the wall, eyes closed.

* * *

It takes a few months after Sara's funeral for Laurel to find balance again. But she doesn't find it in him. She finds it in anger and long hours at work. She leaves before dawn and comes home after he's in bed most days. Even their lovemaking is in the dark, and if she cries softly while he's holding her afterward, he pretends not to notice. He also pretends not to notice the bruises he glimpses when she gets out of the shower in the morning.

He wants to help, but anytime he asks her how he can, she just hugs him for long minutes. "You already are," she says, "just by being here." He makes sure not to squeeze too hard.

There are already murmurs that there's a new Canary on the scene, calling herself the Black Canary. Has she joined Oliver's team, following in her sister's footsteps? Or is she seeking out justice in her own way? He won't ask Oliver; every time he descends those stairs he ends up with yet another secret to add to the mountain he's hiding from the woman he loves.

And the mountain he already shoulders has been wearing on him, after almost a year and a half hiding the truth. So he tries not to blame himself for his weakness when he follows Laurel after work to see where she goes.

When she doesn't end up at Verdant, he's relieved. But his relief doesn't last long when he sees where she does end up: the Wildcat Gym.

He's never even heard of this Ted Grant guy—though a little Googling turns up a boxing past and a few of his protégés. So she _is_ in training, just not with Oliver. Maybe it's just for self-defense, to brush up on her skills.

But he knows better. If it were just that, Laurel would have told him. Hell, she might have invited him to join her. 

That she hasn't told him hurts more than he expects.

His mood is somber when he locks up at Verdant that night, night deposit bag under his arm. Thea's already gone home and he hasn't glimpsed Team Arrow once all night. He's just going to go home, pour himself a tumbler of whiskey and wait for Laurel. It's long past time for them to have a talk.

Halfway to getting out his keys, he hears a voice behind him, low and rough. "Don't turn around. Put the bag on the ground and drive away."

 _Ah, hell._ They had a really good night—there's a lot of money in that bag. Where's his own personal vigilante team when he needs it?

He must have paused too long, because the voice growls, louder. "Do it. _Now._ "

"Hey, don't worry," he says, moderating his tone. The last thing he needs is for some trigger-happy mugger to shoot him up right outside the Arrow's lair. "I'm putting it down." He slowly lowers himself to a squat and places the bag on the slick, grimy asphalt. 

Before he can rise again, he hears a couple of hard thwacks, a grunt and a thump. There's a metallic skittering, and then a handgun bumps against the heel of one of his shoes as it comes to a stop. He breathes a sigh of relief. Oliver's here.

He stands, just as slowly in case there are more of them, and turns. "Thanks, I—"

It's not Oliver. 

It's the Canary—no, the Black Canary—all flowing blonde hair and tight black leather. And beneath the domino mask, unmistakably Laurel. At least to him.

At her feet lies the would-be-mugger, out cold. He swallows. Finding his voice again, he tells her, "Thank you." 

She just nods and bends down to zip-tie the mugger's wrists and ankles together. "Call 911," she tells him, her voice a harsh whisper. The lack of a voice modulator device could mean she hasn't joined Team Arrow, but then again, what does he know, really? Then she suddenly pivots to break into a run. Leaping up to grab the edge of a fire escape, she swings upward to land on the ledge. Wow. How did she get so good so fast? 

"Wait—!" he finds himself calling. 

She pauses, turning back to him in a swirl of blonde hair.

And then the words completely fail him and he doesn't know what he wants to say anymore. _Are you Laurel?_ or _Are you Sara come back to life?_ or even _Why?_

She waits for a moment for him to find his voice again, and then disappears.

Laurel comes home even later that night, and when her arm snakes around his waist to spoon him he pretends to be asleep.

* * *

A few weeks later, he's just closed out the cash register when he marches to the Arrow Cave door. Every night since the night in the alley, he's expected that Laurel will come by to see him, to pretend that everything is normal, and they can continue all the pretending everyone has gotten so good at around here, but she never shows. He barely sees her at home anymore, just a warm body that slips in beside him, kisses and silent caresses in the dark of the night.

The code hasn't changed, so that's good. They're not actively trying to keep him out, anyway.

Felicity looks up from her station when he appears, Oliver is cleaning his arrows or something, John and Roy are training on the mat, throwing punches and kicks. No Laurel.

"Hey, Tommy," Felicity says casually, maybe too casually for his sensitive mood. Oliver nods at him, the other two keep sparring.

"Is Laurel here?" he asks without preamble.

Everything stops. That tells him everything he needs to know.

Felicity's eyebrows draw down—at least she's trying to keep up the facade. "Laurel? Why would—"

He raises an eyebrow at her.

She wilts a little. "Sorry, habit."

Oliver's face is impassive. "I thought you didn't want anything to do with this."

Tommy shakes his head in frustration. He doesn't—but what is he supposed to do when his best friend, his half-sister (a lovely new shock to add to the pile of secrets), his place of work, and now the woman he loves are all caught up in it? "Do I even have a choice anymore?"

No one answers that question. He didn't expect them to.

"Tommy," he hears from behind him, and he's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed that he was right. He turns.

Laurel's standing there in the same leathers as the other night, but without the blonde wig. Her chin is high, her shoulders back. Her face holds regret, but he can read it more closely than that. It's not regret for what she's doing, only that she didn't tell him about it.

He sighs. "Let me guess. You didn't want to worry me."

The others must suddenly find other places to be because in less than a minute the whole room is empty except for the two of them. 

Her mouth quirks up on one side. "You knew about all of this." She gestures around at the bank of computers, the salmon ladder, the training mat, the costumes. "All this time."

He nods. "For a couple of years now."

"I just…" She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Anytime I hinted at it, anytime I got close to the truth, you just acted like..." It's her turn to sigh.

"It wasn't my secret to tell. If you want to blame anyone, blame Oliver. He made me promise not to tell you." Then he blows out a frustrated breath. "No, actually, don't. I knew how torn up you were, I could see it, and I just let you suffer, when I could have said something, I could have been there for you…"

"Tommy." She steps close. "You were there for me." Her hand slides around his shoulders and she pulls him close to place a kiss on his temple. 

He leans into it, like it's the last time. Maybe it is.

"This…" she murmurs, stepping back, "was just something I had to do on my own."

Of course. It's the same with everyone around him. Why waste a minute on being surprised? Her strength and independence is what drew him to Laurel in the first place.

"But this…" he says, and he can't stop the words from coming out, "is what got Sara killed."

She goes rigid, her face paling. But a moment later, her jaw tightens. "That is exactly _why_ I have to do this."

A million thoughts, both helpful and not, rush through his mind, but this time he stops them. All but, "I know."

She's in his arms before he can blink, before he can tell her all the ways he wants to support her, even though he can't join her out there. Instead, he pulls her closer. In his mind, he steps off the sidelines. He's been inching past them for a long time, anyway.

* * *

Felicity's voice—or should he say, Overwatch's voice—buzzes in his ear. "Team headed your way, are you in position?"

"In position and and rolling my eyes at the appetizers. Seriously. How many micro-gastro-en-gelée things can you fit onto one tray?" he tells her. "This party screams 'I'm a one percenter and proud of it.'" It's half a self-burn; he's the only one of them other than Oliver who could score an invite to this thing. The Merlyn name is actually good for something again.

"Careful, TM, your day job is showing," she teases him. 

But that's all she gets out as Team Arrow crashes in through the ceiling. Tommy fakes acting shocked, but keeps his eyes on the target's wife—whom he suspects is more than an unwitting accomplice in her husband's dealings.

The target's security pulls out their guns, and the screams of surprise turn to terror. He pelts toward the wife, acting as protector, but really making sure she doesn't escape the team's dragnet while they're busy not getting shot.

"This way," he says, putting an arm around her waist to lead her into a stairwell. 

She starts to pull out of his grasp, but then she sees his face. Rich but unassuming Tommy Merlyn. "I'm okay," she says, gesturing for him to follow. "I know a way another out."

"I bet you do," he murmurs into the comm. "You get that, babe?"

"Loud and clear," Laurel answers with a chuckle.

When he fakes an ankle sprain, the woman doesn't even apologize as she runs up the next flight of stairs. Doesn't matter, the tracker he placed on her back is active.

The sounds of her capture coming through the comms are highly satisfying.


End file.
